Tukaram, Poem 1659

To the insect in a fig, the fig itself is the universe, you must suppose; how many figs there are on one tree, how many trees in the nine continents! To us men, the earth is the universe, but there are such universes without number, even Virata’s person there are unnumbered hairs. Millions of such Viratas are stored within him. He is the speechless infant of Nanda; he is styled the bliss supreme. Such is the incomprehensible diversion of God, which Tuka comprehends in the ecstasy of Brahma.